


Project T.I.T.A.N

by Beyond_The_Walls



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Protagonist, Medical Experimentation, Military, Military Science Fiction, Military Training, Older Eren Yeager, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Titan Eren Yeager, Titan Shifter Reader, Titan Shifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beyond_The_Walls/pseuds/Beyond_The_Walls
Summary: Time breeds fortune to those willful enough to survive. Within the Walls, humanity managed to not only survive, but thrive. And now, a thousand years later, the Walled City is the revered diadem of humanity's struggles. How unfortunate that there is no one left outside to admire it.Your combat and tactical skills lead you to being drafted by The Regiment, a paramilitary organisation being funded by the United Eldian Liberation group. You've heard tales of their endless experiments on drafted military personnel, trying to find the right candidates to inherit the TITAN powers, but so far, only one has been successful. Though suspicious and anxious, you put your faith in The Regiment's Commander, Erwin Smith, and your new trainer, Eren Jaeger, the surviving TITAN test subject. Despite people telling you how ready you are, when faced with the truths beyond the walls, you realise that you could never have been prepared for the reality.
Relationships: Eren Yeager/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Project T.I.T.A.N

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I've worked tirelessly on this AU, right down to tiny, nitty-gritty details like how futuristic ODM gear might work and the military infrastructure that is a blend of canon and real life ranks, regiments and rules! I really hope y'all enjoy the beginning of this long ass journey!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! And if you have any questions, concerns or requests, feel free to message me or comment below!
> 
> Stay safe, everyone. <3

‘ _There aren’t any tripwires or wrong answers, Sergeant. They want honesty and professionalism. I have faith that you will provide both.’_

The conversation has been played on loop in your head since you left the Sina Military training grounds. Commander Pixis summoned you to his office in the early hours that same day, well before morning call, and delivered news that stumped you. For a minute you were certain he was just playing a prank or thought a joke would make leeway for a more grim subject matter, until he didn’t laugh when you did. He remained still and silent behind his desk, moving only to reveal the ornate flask from inside his jacket and take a long swig. You knew then, when he swallowed so much he winced, that he was being serious.

‘ _The Regiment have c_ _alled for_ _you. They f_ _inalised_ _the serum and are gathering recruits.’_

For an umbrella corporation that banded together all three of the United Eldian Liberation companies, The Regiment sure had a suspicious way of operating; an example of which being the two armed guards sat across from you, in a private carriage on the train ride across the city. They never said a word to you. You barely had time to collect your thoughts, let alone what few possessions you had stored at Sina HQ, before being essentially frog-marched to the station. Your whole career, until the very moment you left the front doors and glanced back to see Commander Pixis watching you with an unreadable expression, had centred around Sina Military.

But The Regiment have power to simply _take_ like this. The efficiency of it is worrying – will you become one of the disappeared? Taken by The Regiment and never returned to where you came from? Perhaps, but Commander Pixis would not relinquish you to them if he were not confident in their pitch, and he is not an easy man to convince when it comes to breaking tradition. Through the past fifty years of The Regiment’s recruitment drives, externals were drafted rather than _poaching_ from Sina Military like this, so something groundbreaking must be underway for them to request a Sergeant only just in the top ten for confirmed kills.

You glance out of the window. The abruptness of it all is enough to give you whiplash, so you try to focus on the scrolling scenery instead. Pastures and farmland that isolated the military base from the neighbouring districts are soon overtaken by wind farms and fields of solar panels, then industrial sites and energy relays to direct various resources in-land. It feels like years since you’ve seen it all – in fact, come to think of it, it _has_ been years. Since being promoted to Sergeant six months ago, your active duty has been on hold while you were reassigned to train new recruits and, even before that, your experience of the rest of your home was while travelling to missions beyond The Wall. Exodus is what they christened _that place_ – a daunting and depressing name to suit the barren wasteland the outside world had become when it was so suddenly abandoned.

Is that what this is about? Now that the serum is ready and mass viability enlistment had begun, are they planning on taking successful candidates beyond The Wall, hoping to reclaim it? It’s a bold hope, if so, but you will serve your country’s call regardless of your personal feelings on the matter. That is what it means, _to you_ , to be a soldier. Trust in your superiors that they will do right by you, so that you may do right by humanity.

For the rest of the journey, you talk with the other Sergeants back in Sina HQ via a holo-pad. It seems Rico Brzenska has been appointed the new Sergeant of the hundred-nineteenth cadet core – she always seemed a little stiff to you, but you know she will train them just as hard as you would have. Gustav and Ian are having a field-day sending photos of them ‘claiming’ your vacated bunk, striking ludicrous poses and piling their shit on it as though you’d already been gone for weeks.

Figuring that neither of the guards are going to do any talking, you connect headphones to the pad and bring up a video you always return to when anxiety begins curling at your core. Feet tucked up onto the seat, you find a comfortable position as you watch the woman on the screen greet a small, neglected dog by the side of the road. She’s laughing as you insist that she can’t keep it – there are already too many mouths to feed – but the dog seems more interested in companionship than scrounging for food.

The next few clips show your helmet-mounted camera panning as you check the stretch of wasteland that seems to carry on for miles around you. In each shot, the dog is trotting along the road behind your squad. It follows you all the way to the temporary camp. The knot in your gut loosens as you watch the woman strum a guitar found in the shell of an old house, singing gently into the night sky – the dog lays beside her, ears pricked and eyes fixed on her. If you were in view of the camera, you’d look the same; you’d be admiring her too.

You fall asleep listening to her sing.

“Get up.”

The first words the guards speak to you, accompanied by a hand under the arm to drag you out of sleep and straight to your feet. Being manhandled off the train and into the bustling inner city mayhem brings that tightness to your insides again, especially since the three of you don’t exactly blend in. Two armed guards bearing the insignia of The Regiment, in black tactical gear, forcibly marching along a young woman in Post-Maria fatigues. All kinds of things could be going on.

_Hope this gives you plenty to gossip about at your over-priced brunch,_ you consider bitterly as you see people in pressed suits and absurdly expensive watches talking amongst each other at the sight of you. Just outside the station, in the manic streets of the city’s business district, a blackout military van is waiting. Single-door entrance at the back and ultrahard steel bolted over the windows. Were they expecting more resistance for you? Surely not. Even if you rejected the official summons, the worst consequence could be disciplinary action. The Regiment may be powerful, but they aren’t so above the law that they can knock troublemakers over the head and drag them, out cold, to the facility.

People are staring and chattering with nervous expressions as you are given a rudimentary search before you’re allowed to board the truck. The steel seats are not nice to sit on, and more guards await you inside. Most wear blackout helmets or balaclavas, and none speak. When you glance back out of the rear door, there are people snapping pictures despite posted Military Police officials warning them to back off. It dawns on you, as the heavy door is swung closed and bolted shut, that perhaps all these people aren’t here to subdue you should you refuse to come willingly.

Perhaps, these armed personnel and this blast-proof truck, are to protect _you._

The drive to The Regiment’s HQ is not long, logically speaking, but it feels that way as you are jostled around in the back of the truck, unable to hear or see anything outside of it. The harsh halogen light does little to illuminate the people sat around you but you can feel their stares. The context of them, however, is a mystery. For a few moments, you have to close your eyes and imagine _her_ , to keep from letting their pointed glares cutting into you any deeper. You think of her and the dog – she fought tooth and nail to bring him home when your eighteen-month outpost excursion was over. There were all kinds of clerical and ethical obstacles to overcome, but she never gave up on that skinny, wiry-haired little dog. If only they…

The door swings open – you hadn’t even notice that it came to a halt – and you’re allowed to walk out freely. A metal gate whirs as it closes off the compound you’ve stopped in. The guards from the truck disperse, confirming your theory that they were there to protect you – they clearly have no need to escort you into the building, nor have more guards been posted in the facility. An officer hands you your duffel bag before the truck leaves the forecourt and you, turning in a slow circle, observing the place.

Ultimately, it is nothing spectacular or necessarily an architectural marvel. It’s ultra-steel and thick glass – most likely bullet proof – with windows uniform and brickwork clean. The doors slide open silently as you approach to reveal a gleaming, angled foyer. It is certainly not a place you belong. You are conscious of your thick-soled boots thumping on the marble tile and messy hair that is not appropriate of a Sergeant, but you simply didn’t have time to prepare in anyway before the journey.

The people wandering about are polished and precise, just like the interior, made of sharp corners and monochrome colours. Dashes of blue and green are around the place – in the hanging banners of The Regiment that display The Wings of Freedom and the few manicured plants standing to attention beside white leather Ottomans. When you reach the front desk, you are confronted with another colour that somehow brightens your mood.

Red.

A woman waits to greet you. Her cherry-red smile is sincere and reaches her eyes. A sweet, round face is framed by hair the colour of falling leaves and, judging by the freckles covering her fair complexion, she is a natural redhead. Just like _her._

“Hello there,” and you’re pulled back into the moment, “Welcome to The Regiment. My name is Petra. How can I help you?”

“I’m here for a meeting with your Commander,” you tell her, readjusting the bag on your shoulder nervously, “I don’t suppose you have somewhere I can clean up, do you? I didn’t have time before I left.”

She blinks a couple times, processing the information – it’s very cute – then breaks out into another smile. Standing, she gestures down the long, broad hallway to your right.

“Last door on your left is the toilets – we have men’s, women’s and gender neutral. I’ll let Commander Smith know you’re here and take you up when you’re done.”

You thank her, which earns another smile so bright you feel it alleviate some of those nerves coiled so tight they threaten to snap. The heavy sigh you’ve been stifling since you entered the building is bottled up until you step into the bathroom, and you only let it out when checking that all the stalls are unoccupied. Even the damn bathroom in this place is sleek and smart – a soldier should be able to adapt to any situation or surrounding, but this is a whole other ballpark. This building, these people, are the faces behind all of the orders, the missions, the projects that you were assigned during active duty and now, you’re stood inside it, about to be one of them.

To steady yourself, you end up gripping the edge of the porcelain sink until your knuckles go white while glaring at your reflection. This is _not_ how you ever imagined meeting the most powerful people in your branch of the military. Hell, even for a meeting with Commander Pixis, you’d be better prepared than this. You really look like you’ve just blown in from the street; a dry, dusty tumble-weed that ended up rolling into a big wig bank in a stiff city.

_No, can’t think like that,_ you argue inside your own head, _you’re trained to adapt to any circumstance, so that’s what you’ll do now – get it together!_

Six years of perfecting the art of tying your hair into a neat bun and wrangling in any fly away pieces with only water and your fingers have paid off as you manage to smooth out and shape your hair into something that resembles a formal appearance. A splash of cold water to the cheeks is enough to bring a bit more colour back to them, even if it is red at first. There’s nothing you can do for the darkness of your eye sockets – that’s something only good sleep and an absence of stress can cure.

You check over every inch of your fatigues to make sure there isn’t a piece out of place. Ideally, you’d be in your full dress uniform when anticipating being in the presence of superiors this important, but this will have to do. Least you can do is ensure that everything is as neat and tidy as possible. No doubt someone will comment on it, so you’ll have to swallow that pill when it’s given.

Petra is waiting with that dazzling smile partway down the hall when you emerge from the bathroom. When you approach, she reaches up – almost pushing onto her tiptoes, even in stiletto heels – to try and smooth down one tuft of pesky hair that juts out at the back of your neck. When it refuses to be subdued, the angel of a woman pulls a bobby pin from her own fringe and uses it to secure the hair in place.

“There, much better,” she declares, before spinning on one foot and striding off down the corridor.

She has the art of setting a fast pace in high heels down to a tee, bonus points for the form-fitting, knee-length dress and being able to climb stairs too. She leads you up one flight and you find yourself faced with the blank, steel doors to an elevator. Instead of a call button, there is a retinal scanner set into the metal fringe which enables when Petra taps a key-card to the small panel below. Nice to know they have decent security measures, though you have yet to see any armed guards inside the building.

You’ve never been much a fan of elevators – the way they trundle and groan as they move is unnerving – but to your pleasant surprise, this one slides its doors closed and begins its ascent with almost no noise. It doesn’t shudder each time you pass a floor and the walls panelled with mirrors barely quiver with the motion of its rapid climb. You feel your insides pulled down towards your feet, though, which seems inevitable no matter how sophisticated the machine itself is.

“You’ll be meeting with Commander Smith, as you know,” Petra explains, “Our Chief Research Officer Zoë will also be there as well as Lieutenant Ackerman. A couple of externals will be in attendance too; representatives from The Monarchs, Rosewall Pharmaceutical and Maria People’s Trust and some of our other senior officers-”

She trails off when she realise your expression has gone from passive to daunting. You are almost startled out of your own thoughts when a hand gently touches your arm. Her kind eyes are resting lightly on you, and the skin-to-skin contact seems to immediately alleviate some of the pressure you were feeling.

“I know it’s easier said than done,” she tells you, tone soft, “But you don’t have to worry. They only go after the best of the best, so I have no doubt that you have everything they are looking for and more. And, if you need to talk when it’s over, come find me downstairs.”

“Thank you, Petra.”

You leave that metal container alone. Petra gives you a thumbs up before the doors slide shut once more. The hallway that stretches out in front of you leads to only one door. None parting off from it, none leading into it. No furniture, no decorations, no discernable features. You want to be away from it – you’re unused to these surroundings. The whole place feels so clinical and sharp.

A security guard stands a ways down the hall, stock still and covered in dark tactical gear. One hand lingers on the magazine of an assault rifle hanging heavy around his neck. That’s a little more familiar, but even more off-putting given the environment that he is in. Is it just another precaution? Or did they really expect you to kick up a fuss? As you near, his grip on the mag tightens, but he makes no move to visibly take point with the gun. A finger to the ear tells you he’s relaying something via an internal comms system – whatever the person on the other end said, it makes him move aside and allow you to pass through to the next room.

As unsettling as his presence was, it is preferable to wait awaits you on the other side of the door.


End file.
